


Over Hill and Under Tree

by autisticalistair



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autisticalistair/pseuds/autisticalistair
Summary: Thorin wants to explore the world, and has the letters of his dearest friend to keep him company while he travels Middle Earth





	

Thorin can’t stay in Erebor. 

It’s been a year since Dis was crowned and a year since Bilbo left. A year since they reclaimed their homeland from a dragon, but got an entire city burned down in the process. Thorin has always told himself that collateral damage was necessary, but not like that. It eats at him, and it gets worse the more he looks at the slowly rebuilding city of Dale. 

So, he can’t stay in Erebor. 

He leaves early in the morning. It’s all sorted with Dis, with his nephews, with the few people who have stayed that he feels he needs to say goodbye to. He doesn’t even know where he’s going to go. Head west until he gets to the sea and then take the long way around back home. It’s a risky journey, but the longer Thorin stays in the mountain, the worse it gets. 

It’s winter when he leaves. He has Orcrist at his back and a bow with arrows at his hip, but he’s not scouting, he doesn’t even intend on fighting unless it’s absolutely necessary. Thorin knows that his fighting days are over. They were over the moment he woke up after two long weeks with a barely healed hole in his chest. He’s glad of it, really. He’s too old, and his weary bones don’t care him as far or as fast as they used to. His hair is still mostly black, but there is more grey now than he remembers, and more lines by his eyes. Thorin sees the worry in Fili’s eyes when he looks at him, and the concern in Dis’ voice when she asks if he’s alright.  _ No, I’m not _ , he wants to say, but the words stick in his throat and he just shrugs. 

He doesn’t carry much with him. Some gold. Clean clothes. A water flask. His cloak hangs on his shoulders and the key to Erebor is tucked safely away in his pack. There’s paper and a pen, and a small bottle of ink. A pile of letters in neat handwriting. 

And, oddly enough, a handkerchief with the initials BB stitched in the corner. 

It had come by post in the summer, attached to the first of many letters that came his way after that. They’re all written in impeccably neat handwriting, the colour of the ink varying from time to time, and Bilbo tells Thorin about the Shire, his journey home, his nosy family that want the small amount of gold he took with him. Thorin writes back, too, though his handwriting is not as neat, and he has less stories to tell. 

But it’s comfort, knowing that there is someone outside of Erebor that wants to speak to him. Thorin wonders if he will be allowed to stay in the Shire for a time. He remembers it well - the soft and gentle part of the world that doesn’t concern itself with the business of others and is conveniently situated far from the troubles of other nations. Thorin hadn’t let himself be calm and relaxed then. He had been burning with passion and determination to take back his homeland and reinstate the Line of Durin where it was rightfully meant to be. He had been told by Gandalf he would have a burglar, and was met with what he assumed to be an incompetent, cowardly halfling. 

The year and a half that followed proved him wrong in so many ways. Instead of incompetent, Bilbo was creative, far sharper than most of them combined when he needed to be. He got them out of difficult situations by doing who only knows what, saving their lives and their quest without a second thought for his own safety. And in that, he wasn’t even close to cowardly. More… well, he  _ had  _ been somewhat repressed, but the moment he was faced with danger, Thorin had watched while he faced it head on and just… dealt with it. 

He thinks of Bilbo often. He thinks of what he’s doing, if he’s in his garden or writing or off exploring again. Thorin tries to picture him wrist deep in soil with bulbs ready to be planted by his side, and finds it quite an appealing image. He’s not holding a sword or covered in grime or sat in the corners of Erebor, looking more alone than Thorin had ever seen him. 

Thorin is glad that he went home. He knows how much home means to Bilbo, and if Thorin was ever going to let himself be selfish again, it wasn’t going to be because he wanted Bilbo to stay. To stay with  _ him _ . 

The first night of his journey, Thorin stays in Dale. He is found by one of Bard’s children in the city, looking for a place to stay, when the eldest of them recognises him. She’s bright and happy, but Thorin knows that a child witnessing the destruction of their home at the brunt of dragonfire is no easy thing to forget. He is cautious when he speaks to her, telling her that he’s heading west. But she doesn’t press, just nods in understanding and invites him to stay with them for a night or two. Thorin has learned to accept the kindness of strangers, and the generosity of friends, so he follows her gratefully. 

“You’re not staying in Erebor?” the new king of Dale asks. He looks older too, but healthier. Thorin supposes after a life of hardship, he now had enough to feed himself and his family. Thorin had hated him at first, but now, in a quiet room where they won’t be disturbed, he’s nothing but kind. 

“I am no longer needed,” Thorin says 

“Where will you go?” Bard asks. 

“Westwards. There’s much of this world I have not seen.” Thorin looks away, running his fingers over the embroidered tablecloth. It looks homemade, he assumes that Bard’s children made it. The man is a king and yet, his daughters and his son are more important to him than any kind of flash.

“And when you have seen it all?” Bard gives him a look over the rim of his glass. 

“I… I do not know,” Thorin admits. 

“I understand,” Bard says. “You are welcome to stay here, if need be.”

“Thank you. And I am sorry for the things I have done, you of all people didn’t deserve them,” Thorin says. It comes out without him even meaning to say it, but when he does, it feels like a weight off of his chest. Bard raises an eyebrow at him. Thorin has always thought that he looks too clever, too sharp for his own good, with  _ troublemaker _ etched into his very being. With that comes the ability to see through false apologies, Thorin has always found. His brother was very much the same. 

“If I weren’t capable of forgiveness, I would not have let you into this house. You have helped rebuild Dale, that is the only thing I could have asked for,” Bard says. His voice is gentle. Thorin still finds it strange that the softness of his accent is directly a result of his ancestors from Dale. 

“Then I’m grateful. And honoured. I will leave tomorrow, though. My journey is a long one,” Thorin says. He stands from the table and Bard does the same. “Goodnight, bargeman.”

Bard smiles. “Goodnight, Oakenshield.”

Thorin sleeps soundly that night. He wakes with the sun streaming through his window and lays there for a good long while, watching it move up the wall and slowly warm the room. The house is quiet, but he hears the growing hum of city life getting louder. Eventually, he manages to pull himself out of bed and get dressed. His movements are slow, even a year after he was wounded, because the scar is still fresh and healing. When he’s done, he makes the bed and sits on it to look around in his bag. 

The letters are in the back of a journal he has been keeping for years. He takes one out - the first one Bilbo had sent him, and smooths it out carefully. He has read it so many times that the ink is fading and the creases in the paper are delicate. 

He reads. 

_ To an old friend _ , it says, 

_ I’ve made it back to the Shire safe and sound. It feels strange to be somewhere so quiet and green, but I’m glad to be back. My garden is a wreck and my house has been stripped of all of its belongings, but they’re slowly being brought back by the people who assumed I was dead. Apparently, eighteen months away, to Hobbits, is a death sentence for sure. In any case, I’m looking forward to fixing my garden and filling my pantry, and making this place home again.  _

_ I remember it like it was yesterday, you know, when you and yours barged in on my life and swept me away on a grand adventure. Not that it turned out to be that grand, more painful than anything else. I’ll have scars for the rest of my life, as will you. I hope you’ve healed soon, it would put my mind at ease to know that you’re up and about and doing things. You’re not the kind of person to just sit down while others work. Just look after yourself, Thorin. That’s all I ask.  _

_ Write back to me if you can. I need to know that you’re okay, otherwise I’m going to come back to Erebor myself and check on you. I mean it.  _

_ I must go now, it’s late and I need sleep.  _

_ Yours, Bilbo Baggins _

_ P.S. It seems ridiculous that these things were so important to me not that long ago _ . 

 

Thorin reads the letter a few times that morning. He had written back as soon as he finished reading it the first time and sent his response that day. Since then, they’ve been writing to each other as often as possible, sometimes sending more than one message before waiting for a response. 

Thorin touches the letters reverently before sliding it in the back of his journal and packing up his things. He’s gone before any of the family wake up, but at the door, he turns back and opens his bag. The little icon he leaves is the carved image of a raven. It’s unfinished, but he thinks it looks nice. He doesn’t know if he can convey what he thinks in a note. 

He leaves Dale. The quickest way to the Anduin is through Mirkwood, so he takes it slow, not wanting to be in that stale forest just yet. He finds the mouth of the Forest River on one side of the Long Lake, and by that time, the sun is beginning to set on the other side of the forest. As he coaxes a small fire to life, Thorin watches the sky change colour and darken. 

He hasn’t slept outside for a long time, so the noises of nature are strange to him. He stays up, leaning against a tree and looking at the fire, listening to the far off noises from deep in the woods and the gentle flowing of the river a few meters away from him. It’s peaceful enough to lull him to sleep eventually, and he wakes just before daybreak. 

He keeps moving. Crossing through Mirkwood is easier than it had been the last time, but Thorin puts it down to being alone. He passes through it safely, and comes out near the Skinchanger’s hut. He doesn’t bother the man, just walks around and moves on. 

He follows the Anduin south. He sleeps rough most of the time, or, if he’s lucky, he gets a room at a quiet inn where no one asks questions when they see an ageing dwarf eat with them. He meets a Ranger with striking red hair who tells him about her travels, and her brothers and sisters. Thorin talks about his family, too, though only in vague terms. He doesn’t name his sister, nor his nephews of his cousins, but he talks about them for what feels like hours, his pipe in his hand, smiling when he remembers Fili and Kili as children. 

“Why are you so far away from them?” the Ranger asks. She has kind eyes, soft blue. 

“I couldn’t stay there. They didn’t need me there,” Thorin says. He exhales a series of smoke rings and they float up into the rafters of the inn. “I’m going to Rohan.”

“Why Rohan?”

“I’ve never been there.” Thorin wants to say that he’s heard it’s a peaceful place, but he doesn’t say it. He just strugs and blows out another smoke ring. 

“And afterwards?” the Ranger asks. 

“Gondor. And then through the White Mountains up to the Shire, I think,” Thorin says. He feels the Rangers eyes on him, curious and searching, and looks at her. 

“You never hear of people exploring the Shire,” she says with a knowing look. 

“I have a… friend. A friend in the Shire,” Thorin says. “He’s offered to let me stay a time, if I need to.”

“Oh, now I want to hear the story of how a Dwarf and a Hobbit became friends,” the Ranger says with a laugh, but she stops when she sees the look on Thorin’s face. “It’s not a happy story, is it?”

“No, it’s not. Well, it’s mostly not. But there are happy bits,” Thorin says.

“Well, I hope it’s one I haven’t heard before,” the Ranger says. 

Thorin tells her everything. He names his family and his friends, doesn’t leave out many details, save for the ones he would rather keep himself.  _ I used to think the fireflies were stars _ . She doesn’t need to know those things about him. No one does. She smiles and laughs where it’s funny, and grows somber when it’s not, and her eyes soften when Thorin brings up his ‘friend from the Shire’, referring to him as the Burglar. 

Thorin knows that the shift in his tone gives him away the moment he mentions how Bilbo left, leaving Thorin behind in a mountain he almost paid for with his life. He mentions the mithril shirt, and Bilbo’s acorn, and the things Thorin had said to him when he thought he was truly dying.  _ Plant your trees, watch them grow _ . He still stands by it. (“You’re a little dramatic, aren’t you?” the Ranger asks, making Thorin smile). Bilbo had sent him a letter, telling him that the acorn had started to grow in his garden. Thorin remembers almost crying when he read that, thought even now, he isn’t quite sure why. 

The Ranger looks at him for a long time when he’s done. She has a pipe out too, and is leaning back, her face cast in shadow as she mulls over what she’s just heard. She seems a clever soul, and kind too, so Thorin doubts she’ll have anything cruel to say about his cowardice, or his cruelty to his dearest friend. 

Eventually, she just sighs. 

“You sound like my father, you know,” she says. “Loved my mother, with all his heart. But he had this friend he used to write too all the time. I think my father loved him a little bit, but he never said it. HIs friend died and my father was destroyed by guilt at never saying it. He went his whole life never admitting how he felt.”   
“Are you saying I have to go straight to the Shire and sweep him off of his feet before I die? Because I don’t see myself doing that,” Thorin says. The Ranger shrugs. 

“Maybe not  _ straight  _ to the Shire. See the world first, get all of that out of your system, and then find him. What’s the worst that can happen?” she said. Thorin laughs and looks at the table, with its dents and carvings and worn patterns at the edge. 

“I take it nobody told you that that phrase if the reason bad things happen,” he says. The Ranger just shrugs again. 

“I say it all the time and I’m doing just fine,” she says, grinning around her pipe. 

“Lucky are the young amongst us,” Thorin says. His pipe goes out and he puts it into his pocket. “In more ways than one. I must get some sleep.”

“I leave early tomorrow. I’m heading south, if you need the company,” the Ranger says. 

“No, though I appreciate the offer. And… thank you. For your company,” Thorin says. He stands and so does she, towering over him. She looks like she could wrestle a bear and win, even in layers of flexible armour and cotton. 

“And I appreciate yours. I wish you the best of luck, my lord,” she says, bowing. Thorin bows back and heads to his rented room. It’s cosy and small, and he pens a short letter before he falls asleep. 

 

_ Dear Bilbo,  _

_ I’ve left Erebor and I’m going to see the corners of Middle Earth I have not yet experienced. I am a weeks walk from Edoras, in Rohan, and from there I will make my way to Gondor and, hopefully, northward towards the Shire. It don’t know if I will be welcome among your kind, but I was wondering if, when the time comes, I would be able to stay with you a while? Only a few weeks at the most. I would much like to see you again, and talk to you about many things that have happened over the last year we have not penned to each other.  _

_ I will admit that I miss your company. It is a lonely journey, though I have met a few strange people who are also delightful and kind. I was talking to a Ranger today who told me of her dealings with Elves, and the battles she had fought in. She is a true warrior.  _

_ I do not expect a reply until I reach Minas Tirith. If you do have a response, send it to  _ The Blue Lily  _ in Minas Tirith, they will keep letters for future guests.  _

_ I hope I will see you soon, old friend.  _

_ Yours, Thorin Oakenshield _

_ - _

Rohan is quiet. 

That’s the first thing Thorin notices. There are fields of white flowers and barley, and seemingly endless expanses of pale green grass. And in the space, it’s just  _ silence _ . 

Thorin thinks he could live out his days here, in a simple wooden hut in one of these fields, a small farm where he grows his crops and his vegetables, a couple of cows and pigs. He would live alone, a quiet life where his only companions were the strange fragrant flowers that grew in these lands and the wild horses that roamed free. He knows it would be lonely, but he still entertains the idea. A lonely life in a place as calm as this is preferable to no life at all. 

Thorin presses the white flowers and herbs that he finds into his journal, hoping to find someone who can help him identify them once he reaches Edoras. He considers sending some to Bilbo, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just keeps them in his journal and hopes one day to show Bilbo the things he has found. 

Thorin writes, too. Journal entries detailing the people he meets and the things he sees. He’s not one for flowery descriptions, but he wants to remember. Every day, he writes in it, even just a little bit, so he will remember the places he has been and the things he has seen. Thorin has never been afraid of fading away before, leaving nothing but a memory of who he once was, but he doesn’t want to rely on his good name anymore. So, he writes. He writes letters to people who are either dead or a long way away, too, saying things he wished he had said before.  _ Dis, I’m so proud of you. I always have been. You’re the strongest person in our family and I love you more than anyone, anything. Fili, you will be a great king one day. You’re far kinder and gentler than your grandfather or I. Kili, I never want you to think I’m disappointed in you, I’m proud of you beyond measure.  _

_ Bilbo, I fell in love with you and I’ve never been the same since.  _

Sometimes, Thorin dreams of warm hands in his and the soft kiss that a certain burglar had pressed to his cheek before leaving the Lonely Mountain forever.

Sometimes, he dreams of fire. 

Fangorn Forest is old and dark, but dark with age, not with the corruption of the spiders in Mirkwood. Thorin leans against a great oak and sits with his eyes clothes, breathing in smoke from his pipe, trying to clear his head as best as possible. He listens. He heard creaking branches and rustling winds, and if Thorin hears also a deep song coming from the heart of the forest, then he doesn’t try to explore it. It sends him to sleep, and he wakes feeling rested for the first time in years. 

He makes to Edoras not long after that. It’s built on a hill, the flags of the white horse fluttering in the wind and the graves of kings blooming with the same flowers as the ones in Thorin’s journal. The Rohirrim ignore him, mostly, unless he’s paying for bed and board, and then they’re all too happy to take his money and strike up conversation, answering his questions and helping him find a route to Minas Tirith. 

He pens another letter to Bilbo, and sends with it a couple of the pressed flowers, Simbelmyne or Evermind, according to the Rohirrim. Thorin tells him about Fangorn, and the ancient song he heard. He writes about the food in Rohan and the silence of the ever-stretching fields of grass and wildflowers, and how he had thought about living out the rest of his life there. He can already picture Bilbo’s little smile at that comment, perhaps with a touch of sadness to it. Some days, Thorin realises he can’t quite remember how Bilbo’s voice sounds, or the look on his face when he had said goodbye to Thorin at the gates of Erebor. 

Thorin adds a note at the end of the letter:  _ I wish you were here sometimes. It’s lonely, alone in the world, and yours is the company I am desperately seeking these days. I shall be with you soon, I promise.  _

He sends the letter the next morning and goes about exploring Edoras. 

Thorin ends up with new blocks of wood for whittling, and a new knife for it. He spends his evenings in the inn carving out shapes in the wood. The first is a warrior holding an axe and a shield. Thorin is drastically out of practice, so it’s sloppy and not very defined, but he gives it to a child who runs around the main floor in the evening, and she seems to love it, looking at him with wide brown eyes and a toothy smile as she thanks him. 

The second one is the throne of Erebor, how Thorin remembers it from his youth. He wishes he had opal or howlite to set where the Arkenstone had once been, but it looks fine as it is. He leaves it with a thank you note when he leaves Edoras. 

-

Thorin had been told that the quickest way to reach Minas Tirith was to follow the White Mountains east and then go south,  _ you can’t miss it, it’s made of white stone _ . 

Somehow, with those stellar instructions, he manages to get lost. He takes a wrong turn at the end of the mountain range and walks north for a few hours, before realising his mistake and heading back south towards where Minas Tirith is tucked safely away in the mountains, watching over the land of Mordor. It takes three days, but Thorin gets there, and when he sees the shining white walls and towers, he has to stop and take a moment or few to simply  _ look _ . 

It’s breathtaking. It’s everything described to him, a city of simple splendor and legend, and even from the foot of the city, which rises like a mountain, he can see the White Tree of Gondor, a few branches poking out from the ledge. 

Thorin had grown up in a city of legend, and helped reclaim it from evil forces. And yet, he’s awestruck by a city with no king that gleams with hope next to the darkness of Mordor. It feels like home, in a very strange way. Erebor had been home to a dragon for long years, and now, it’s prospering the way it used to, slowly but steadily growing stronger under Dis’ rule. 

Thorin finds Minas Tirith a calm city. 

The streets are all slanting upwards, and if Thorin hadn’t lived among mountains all his life, he would have hated it. As it was, he quite liked it. He makes his way up towards  _ The Blue Lily _ , craving a hot meal and some sleep, when he remembers that there might be a letter for him, if it reached Minas Tirith in time. 

“Thorin Oakenshield?” the innkeeper says, rifling through the envelopes. “You have three. They got here about two weeks ago.”

“Three?” Thorin says. He doesn’t voice his curiosity, simply takes the letters and thanks the man, before going up to his room. He shucks off his cloak and boots and crawls under the covers, as it’s late in the night. He looks at the writing on the letters. They’re not all from the same person. Two are from Bilbo, that’s obvious, but the other is from Dis, he’s sure of it. Her writing is messy, almost unintelligible to anyone but Thorin or her sons. He opens hers first. 

 

_ Thorin,  _

_ Bilbo told me you were heading towards Minas Tirith. I hope this reaches you in time. I know you feel like you don’t belong here with us, or that we don’t need you, but we do. You’re my brother, and my best friend. You’ve always been there for me. You were there when I got cold feet about Vili, you were there when both of the boys were born, you were there when Vili died, and you were there when we needed a leader to guide our people to safety. You might not think that you’re needed in Erebor anymore, but you will always have a place at my side. Not necessarily as king, but as my brother.  _

_ That being said, you needed to leave. You needed the fresh air and the silence and your own company. I know you, Thorin. You spent so much time leading and commanding that now, you need to be alone. You need the time to yourself to think and to just exist. Wherever you go, if you never come back to Erebor, if you return soon, if you stay halfway between us and the Shire, you will always have a place amongst us.  _

_ Stay safe, brother. I love you.  _

_ Dis _

 

Dis has always been good at making Thorin’s emotions come to life. He reads the letter a couple of times, his knees pulled up to his chest, something painful and real growing in his heart that he isn’t sure he wants to deal with. He knows that she can be more honest with the written word than she can bring herself to be in person, and he’s grateful that she’s decided to say the things she thinks instead of covering them up with flowery language and metaphors. He sets her letter to the side and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to force away tears. Thorin has never been much of a crier, and he isn’t sure is that’s a particularly good thing. It takes a lot for him to cry. 

He lets himself cry for the first time in a long time. He hates that Dis is so  _ good  _ at that, bringing his feelings to the surface so he has no choice but to experience them. He’s homesick. He’s lost. He’s angry at himself for leaving it too late. Leaving  _ what  _ too late, he can’t quite admit to himself, but he read between the lines.  _ Halfway between us and the Shire _ , whatever that meant. Except, Thorin knows. And Dis knows. 

He pulls himself together. It takes a good few minutes, but he manages it, and with shaking hands, he takes Bilbo’s letters up. 

One of them has  _ open this one last  _ written as an afterthought on the back, and so he leaves it to the side to open the other one. It’s three bloody pages of Bilbo’s immaculate handwriting, complete with a couple of drawings and what looks like pressed cornflowers, though he can’t be too sure. 

 

_ Thorin,  _

_ I’ll admit, I was surprised by your last two letters. I never took you for much of an explorer, nor for someone who ever needed ‘alone time’. But then again, I’ve only ever known you as a king and a leader. Everyone needs alone time every now and again.  _

_ You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Don’t ever think you aren’t welcome here. And I would like to see you again. It’s been a long, slow year without any adventure to keep me busy, and I’m afraid that most people here have decided that me showing up out of the blue was extremely rude, so no one really talks to me anymore. Except for Gaffer. Well, that’s enough for me.  _

_ I hope you can tell me about Rohan and Gondor when you get here. I’d love to hear about them, seeing as I doubt I’ll ever get to visit them myself. I’m actually a little bit jealous that you get to see these incredible places while I’m here in Bag End, still trying to get my belongings back from people who insist that they don’t have them. Your description of Rohan sounds heavenly. Imagine living there, how quiet it would be waking up early to those fields stretching for miles around.  _

_ I’ll admit, Thorin, I’m terribly lonely here. I miss the company, and even though none of you seem to understand the concept of privacy, part of me wishes we were still travelling together. Sitting at home and writing about the quest and tending to my garden gets terribly boring some days, and I’m always half tempted to leave for Erebor at the drop of a hat, though I doubt I would ever make it there alone. Mirkwood is still dangerous and orcs and goblins are still around, and a Hobbit travelling alone through those lands would likely draw attention. But I wish I was brave enough to go.  _

_ You’re always brave, you know. Not many people could do the things you’ve done - summon a group of mishmash dwarves, chase a dragon, and take back an entire mountain, only to get stabbed in the chest by an orc and still survive. Though, I think some of that must be stubbornness on your part. You may be brave (almost hilariously so), but you’re you’re stubborn and unmoving. I respect that. You don’t come across much stubbornness in this part of the world and it can get rather dull, with no one to argue with the way I could argue with you, though I think much of that must have been my fault.  _

_ I’m sorry I was… well, the way I was. I was naive, you know. Very naive and very sheltered. It took a wizard and a company of dwarves to get me to even think about leaving home and seeing the world, and I almost lost you at the end of it. If I had, I don’t know how I would have coped with it. You are my dearest friend, Thorin. My dearest friend and my sole confidant these days. I value your letters and the things you tell me about, and I hope one day that we get to sit down and talk, and say all of the things we never got to say to each other. I know there is much you haven’t said, and the things I wish I had told you rattle around in my head day after day, but I can’t put them on paper. That feels too impersonal.  _

_ I will say this, though, as it is the easiest thing to say. I am grateful for our friendship. I am glad to have known you. I am honoured to have fought by your side for so long. I am sorry for the things I did, and for betraying your trust, but I could not bear the idea of losing you to your own mind. You are too precious to me, in more ways than one.  _

_ If you make it to Hobbiton, or if you’re ever in the area, just know that you are welcome to come and stay and eat all of my food, any time. I hope to see you soon, and to hear from you soon, too.  _

_ Yours, Bilbo Baggins _

_ - _

The second letter remains unopened. 

Thorin travels west through Gondor, towards the coast. The land is caught between rugged and green, which results in several sprained joints and a good few bruises as Thorin makes his way to the sea. He avoids cities until he gets to Linhir, and only stays a couple of nights to rest. The unopened letter lingers in the back of his mind, but after reading the first one, Thorin isn’t sure he’ll be able to handle the second. Bilbo’s letter had frozen Thorin, right down to the core.  _ You are precious to me in more ways than one _ . That line in particular rattles around in his head day in and day out as he tries to figure out what it means. He wishes he was closer to the Shire, mostly so he could ask Bilbo what he had meant. 

He knows he doesn’t need to ask, but he tells himself he does anyway, even if only to keep himself sane. 

Thorin vows to get there by autumn. It is early summer, so he has time. While passing through the White Mountains and turning north, he considers buying a pony for the journey there. It might make him feel less lonely enough to cope. He doesn’t, though his knees might not thank him in a few years. Thorin resolves to just take it slow and make it to the Shire in one piece, having seen the things he wanted to see. 

As an split second decision, he turns north east and follows the Greyflood river. Further inland, the land gets easier to navigate, and it soon becomes familiar, taking the shape of the land Thorin had wandered in his youth. He can see the Misty Mountains rising up like a long forgotten memory. He remembers almost losing Kili up there, and hanging from the side of the mountain face to pull Bilbo from certain death. The Misty Mountains were home to him for a long time. He hopes to never have to call them home again. 

It takes a long while to find Rivendell. Thorin isn’t even sure why he’s looking for it, but to him, it seems like the right thing to do. Rivendell is almost exactly east of the Shire, which makes travelling much easier for him, he tells himself. When he finds it after a week, he is welcomed by Elrond, much more kindly than he deserves, he thinks. He is taken through the halls of Rivendell by the same elf as had greeted him and his company so long ago and told to go to the dining area, the same as last time, when the sun goes down. 

Thorin had enjoyed Rivendell the first time he had been there. He would never admit it, but it was serene, and quiet. Not the same kind of wild silence as the fields of Rohan, nor the polite calmness of the Shire. It was silence for the sake of silence. For contemplation. For learning. The elves here were scholars before anything else, and so they spent less time hunting and wandering than their woodland kin and more time in quiet study of their history and that of other peoples, learning as much as they could. 

Thorin isn’t surprised that Bilbo had been tempted to stay here. He is, at heart, a scholar, only one who likes to get his hands a little dirty too. As Thorin wanders the halls and sits by one of the great fountains in the gardens, he realises that he had not been able to enjoy Rivendell like this before. He had been coloured by anger and fear at the prospect of going into enemy territory, but the Lindon elves were not his enemy, and Elrond had aided them greatly in their quest without want for reward. 

The sun sets and Thorin makes his way to the dining room. Elrond is there, but he is not alone, and Thorin almost doubles back when he realises that he will have to sit and eat with Peredhel’s family. 

But he persists, and is greeted by Elrond and his daughter, Arwen. Thorin feels slightly out of place, but shuts down those feelings of inadequacy as fast as he can, refusing to feel like nothing next to elves. He has not forgiven Thranduil for his refusal to help, but Elrond is not the King of the Woodland Realm. He had a guardian of Middle Earth, and a kind soul, if a little cryptic. 

“I understand your sister is the first queen of Erebor,” Elrond says. Thorin nods slowly. “I’ve heard good things about her rule so far. Erebor is thriving because of her.”

“Dis is a good queen. She will restore Erebor to its former glory, I’m sure of it,” Thorin says. He knows his words sound stilted, but it’s because of how little he’s spoken to anyone recently. He reads Bilbo’s letters out loud when he needs to hear a voice in the silence, but it’s not really enough. 

“And yet she didn’t go with you to reclaim it,” Elrond says. There is a question in there, and Thorin sighs, setting down his drink. 

“She would have come, but… she sent both of her sons, Dis didn’t want to be in the way of their gaining experience out in the world. If she had been with us, I’m sure it would have been over and done in half the time it took,” he says. It’s the truth. She may have been reluctant, but she was a warrior through and through, raised with the same burning anger Thorin had running through his veins every day of his life since Smaug took the mountain. 

“So why are you wandering so far west?” Elrond asks. He looks at Thorin with that gleam in his eyes that says he already knows the answer. 

“I’ve been to Gondor and Rohan. Travelling,” Thorin says. He watches Elrond and Arwen look at each other. 

“We are quite out of the way of those places,” Elrond says. 

“I know,” Thorin says.

“I heard you were severely injured during the battle.” Elrond leans back. “The journey must have been hard. You are welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“I’ve been told that a lot before. But I’ve healed, and I must continue soon. I do not wish to be a burden on you longer than necessary.” Thorin drains his wine (he’s starting to like wine more than ale, if he’s being honest) and stands. Elrond stands too, as does Arwen. She’s taller than Thorin thought, and he’s a little intimidated by her silent power. He doesn’t doubt that she, like her father, is a warrior underneath the ornately embroidered dress, and the sly little smile she gives him is enough to tell him that she isn’t to be messed with. 

“I can arrange for you to be given a pony to travel with,” Elrond says. 

“Thank you. I would appreciate that.” Thorin bows and leaves, going back to his room. 

He leaves midday the next day.

-

Thorin remembers a time during the quest when he had been desperate to leave the Shire the moment he set foot in it. He crosses into Bree-land and finds he can’t wait to see the gentle landscape of it once again. 

Bree is familiar, at least. Thorin navigates it quickly, guiding his pony (which he nicknames Buttercup as a joke one day and ends up only ever calling her that) through the village and looking for somewhere he can tether her while he eats, before heading straight towards the Great East Road. He ends up sat up against a gate on the west side of the village while Buttercup munches on apples he bought for her. She’s carried him from Rivendell, it’s the least Thorin can do for her. He strokes her nose when she nudges him and scratches behind her ears. 

“We’re nearly there,” he says softly. It’s warm, so he has his cloak spread out under him and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I think you’ll do well in Hobbiton, but you know Bilbo will spoil you rotten when he sees you. He wasn’t fond of ponies, but if you’re good to him, he’s good to you.”

Buttercup looks at Thorin and he gives her another apple, smiling to himself. 

Bilbo’s letter is still tucked away and unopened inside of Thorin’s journal. He thinks of it then, as he’s slicing up an apple for himself with what used to be a throwing knife. He considers opening it. It’s been two months since he was in Minas Tirith, he  _ should  _ be able to read the second letter. He’s let the contents of the first one sink in over time. But… well, that doesn’t mean that he’s ready to deal with whatever it is Bilbo thought was so important to say that he sent a second letter halfway across the world. 

Thorin stays sat down there for a few hours, until the sun begins to lower in the sky. After that, he packs up his things - the dwindling bag of apples and the knife - and leads Buttercup west, following the setting sun slowly beginning to turn the sky gold. 

Thorin sleeps in the Old Forest that night. The summer air hold little chill, but the warmth from his cloak wrapped around his shoulders is enough, combined with a small fire. Buttercup curls up and lets Thorin leans against her, stroking her neck absently while watching the fireflies in the trees. It seems so strange that he had once thought that they were stars, but he can see why he did, when he was young. He hears Bilbo’s voice in the back of his head.  _ You never saw the stars before then _ , he had said.  _ No, _ Thorin said,  _ I lived under a mountain. _

He sees the stars through gaps in the trees and stares up at them. It’s so… peaceful. So peaceful and calm here, in a way that appeals to Thorin. He doesn’t have to try so hard to exist. He can simply just  _ be _ . 

He falls asleep with his head against Buttercups neck, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t dream. 

The Water is easy enough to follow once Thorin crosses the Brandywine Bridge, and seeing the Shire for the first time in two and a half years is like a breath of fresh air. 

It’s so  _ green  _ this time of year. And it goes on for miles, nothing but gentle hills and valleys, little rivers and small pockets of farmland, villages of Hobbits clustered here and there, most of which Thorin passes through without consequence. He gets a lot of stares in one village, but no one says anything, and he’s allowed to pass through, leading Buttercup and talking to her, pointing out little things he remembers from his last visit. She’s an attentive listener, though not really one for conversation. He likes that. 

The walk seems to take no time at all. Crossing from East Farthing to West Farthing happens without ceremony, and Thorin finds himself looking at Hobbiton before he even realises. His eyes are drawn to the old tree growing out of Bag End and his throat closes up. He can’t move from his spot. He tries to squint to see if Bilbo is in his garden, or if he’s sat outside of his door with his pipe, but he can’t tell. 

Buttercup snorts and flicks her ears against a fly that’s buzzing around her head and the sound brings Thorin out of his internal downward spiral. He grits his teeth and presses on, despite the anxiety picking up like a hurricane in his stomach. 

Thorin gets some funny looks as he passes through Hobbiton and makes his way towards Bag End. He nods at the Hobbits and smiles, but he’s distracted by the green door not too far away. He tethers Buttercup to the gate outside and puts his hand on it to open it, but he can’t quite do it. He stares at the bright flowers by the door and the greenery crawling up the side by the windows, the bench and the letterbox, the steps leading up to the door. Thorin feels like he has just stepped back in time to when he first saw this place. He remembers thinking how tranquil it is, how unobtrusive and simple, and almost Dwarven in nature, given how it was carved out of the side of a hill, made to work with nature, not against it. 

Thorin is jolted out of his thoughts when the door opens and Bilbo comes out, humming to himself. He’s not dressed like the rest of the Hobbits, all prim and proper. His shirt is a little crumpled and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows haphazardly, and the hem is untucked. Thorin stares at him, hand on the gate, unable to move. Bilbo just crouches down by a little patch of herbs and looks at them, brushing his fingers over them and muttering to himself, clearly looking for something in particular. He doesn’t even notice Thorin. 

_ Breathe _ , he tells himself.  _ Breathe. In and out. In and out _ . 

Bilbo stands up with a bundle of herbs in his hand. Thorin says his name, first as a whisper and then louder when Bilbo doesn’t hear him. 

They look at each other. 

Thorin forgets to breathe until Bilbo smiles and walks down the steps towards him, tucking the bundle of herbs into his back pocket. 

“You’re here,” he says. There’s still a gate between them. Thorin opens it and closes it behind him when he steps through into the garden. 

“I’m here,” Thorin manages. Bilbo just looks at him for a moment, eyes wide. And then, before Thorin can even think of doing anything else, there are arms around his neck and he’s being pulled down into a tight hug. 

“You’re here,” Bilbo whispers. Thorin smiles and feels as if his heart is about to beat its way out of his chest, but he doesn’t care. He hugs Bilbo back and lifts him off of his feet, getting a startled yelp and a laugh when he takes Bilbo by surprise. Hands go to his neck and Bilbo draws back once Thorin puts him down, smiling like the sun and almost blinding to look at. Thorin brings a hand up to touch the side of his face. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so early,” Bilbo says. “Last I heard from you, you were in Minas Tirith.”

“Middle Earth isn’t as big as it seems, and travelling alone goes quicker,” Thorin says. He’s still touching Bilbo’s cheek, and he can’t bring himself to draw his hand back. 

“Would you like to come in?” Bilbo asks. He steps back, but takes Thorin’s hand again, pulling him towards the steps and up. Thorin glances back at Buttercup, but she’s happily nibbling at the grass by the gate. Thorin makes a mental note to untether her and take her down to Bywater Pool when he can. 

He’s pulled into Bag End, and when the door closes, he can finally breathe. 

-

The first thing Bilbo does is give him clean clothes to wear. Thorin has been travelling for months, he hasn’t really had a lot of chances to wash his clothes. He gets changed while Bilbo makes them tea, and when he comes into the kitchen, he’s greeted by the sight of Bilbo trying to clear the table of documents and papers and maps while balancing a tray of tea and those raisin cakes Thorin had tried not to absolutely devour the last time he was here. 

“Let me.” Thorin takes the tray and sets it on the counter before helping Bilbo clear some space, just putting the paper into piles and putting them where Bilbo tells him to. They sit down at the end and Bilbo pours tea silently. 

Thorin doesn’t mind the silence. In fact, he likes it. He likes how easy it is to fall into, despite not having seen each other for a year and a half. Bilbo doesn’t ask any questions, not yet, not until they finish their tea, Thorin suspects. Then, he will have to provide some answers. 

For now, he’s happy just to drink the tea and eat the raisin cakes and share the quiet company he had found with Bilbo during the quest. 

“Where did you get the pony?” is Bilbo’s first question, and he asks it with a little smile. 

“Rivendell.”   
“You went to Rivendell?”

“I took a detour.”

“From Gondor to Rivendell.” 

“Okay, maybe not a detour. But I got Buttercup out of it.” Thorin shrugs and takes another raisin cake. 

“Oh, please tell me you called her Buttercup and the elves didn’t,” Bilbo says, laughing. 

“I’ll say nothing.” But Thorin smiles and he gives himself away. 

“Well, in any case, I'm glad you're here Thorin,” Bilbo says. He puts his hand on Thorin’s from across the table, moving his thumb over his knuckles gently. Thorin looks down at where they're touching and realises he doesn't want to pull his hand away. Instead, he links their fingers together, as much as he can with Bilbo’s hands being smaller than his, and braves looking up. 

“As am I,” he manages in a small voice. They stay like that for what feels like forever, until Bilbo pulls his hand away and stands with his empty teacup, taking Thorin’s too. 

Thorin watches him wash up, leaning his elbows on the table. The afternoon is coming to a close, and so the rich golden sun is streaming through the kitchen window, turning Bilbo’s hair red and the whole room a warm, cozy colour. He leans back in his chair and Bilbo turns his head towards the creak of old wood. 

“You should tell Dis you’re here,” he says, drying a teacup. 

“I’ll write to her tomorrow,” Thorin says. He stands and stretches, hearing his back pop as a warning that he isn’t as spry as he used to be. 

“You must be tired. Do you want to get some sleep?” Bilbo asks, turning around to look at him. He wipes his hands on a dishcloth and leaves it on the side. 

“I need to take Buttercup to Bywater Pool,” Thorin says. 

“I’ll come with you,” Bilbo says, his face lighting up. “If.. if that’s alright, that is.”

“I’d like the company.”

They leave together just as the sky begins to truly darken. Bilbo spends about five minutes cooing and stroking Buttercup’s nose, though the smile Thorin gets to witness is worth it, because he watches from the gate as Bilbo scratches under her jaw and grins when she huffs and noses at his pockets for food. 

They walk down to Bywater Pool together, taking the long way around. Hobbiton is quiet this time of day. Lanterns are lit around the little village and the smell of summer flowers carries through the breeze, as does the sound of laughter from inside the smials they walk past. Thorin guides Buttercup gently, talking to her softly when she stops to sniff at the grass or the flowers. 

“She’s taken a liking to you,” he says when Buttercup nudges at Bilbo again. 

“Don’t tell her I’m allergic,” Bilbo says. They’re almost at the little lake. 

“I’m sure your sneezing will do the job for me,” Thorin teases, stroking Buttercups neck. 

They make it to Bywater Pool when the moon is out in full, though it is only a semicircle in the sky. Buttercup drinks while Bilbo and Thorin sit at the edge of the lake together. Thorin tilts his head back and looks at the stars. 

“They’re different here,” he says quietly. “You can see them clearer.”

“And they’re not fireflies.”

“Oh, that too.”

“I haven’t been here for ages,” Bilbo says. “Not since… well, not since I was a tween, really. We used to come swimming here.”

“We?” Thorin asks. 

“Friends, cousins, all of that. When it was really hot, we’d come here to cool down,” Bilbo says. He scoots closer to the edge of the water and puts his feet in, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the sky. “Do you remember when you lot almost destroyed one of those fountains in Rivendell?”

“I had no part in that, that was the rest of them,” Thorin says, but Bilbo just laughs and rolls his eyes. 

“Alright, keep telling yourself that,” he says. 

“I think I’m ruined for swimming after the incident with the barrels, to be honest.” Thorin takes off his boots and copies Bilbo. The water is blessedly cool, and he sighs, kicking his leg out a little to see the surface ripple gently. 

“At least you were  _ in  _ a barrel. I just had to hold on for dear life.” Bilbo closes his eyes and tips his head back properly, and Thorin’s throat closes up at the sight. The moonlight isn’t particularly bright, but he’s illuminated all the same. Thorin sees the faint, fading scars on his arms and face from the battle and wants to touch him, but he holds back, too scared to cross any lines. He knows that even know, there are walls up between them, walls that Thorin blames himself for entirely. 

He braves moving his hand to touch Bilbo’s and watches as he opens his eyes and looks at Thorin. He looks older, but that’s just normal, with the passing of time. There is more grey in Thorin’s hair than when they met, and Thorin wouldn’t be surprised if he found some in Bilbo’s. But now, he’s more preoccupied with Bilbo leaning against him and his hair tickling Thorin’s jaw. 

“Do you think Buttercup will be okay here?” Thorin asks. 

“She’ll be fine. Do you want to go back?” Bilbo asks. His voice is soft, and he doesn’t even really sound like himself. Thorin recognises this, the air around them steeped in expectation, though none of them are really going to do anything except go back and make dinner, and after that, get some sleep. 

They silently agree to leave Buttercup to it and Thorin pulls Bilbo to his feet. They walk back in silence, and don’t come across anyone, they just pass through the tiny villages uninterrupted until they get to Hobbiton and, eventually, Bag End. 

Thorin insists on helping cook and is tasked with cutting up potatoes, which he’s happy to do, slicing them into cubes while Bilbo does everything else. Soon, the kitchen is full of the smell of steaming vegetables and roasting chicken, and Bilbo asks for Thorin’s help in clearing off the table. 

“What are you doing with all of this?” Thorin asks, looking at a map of Lorien. He must have gotten it from Elrond on his way back to the Shire. 

“Research.”

“Research into what?”

“Just research.” 

They end up shoving all of the papers into Bilbo’s study, which is already filled to the brim with files and folders and documents. Thorin doesn’t even ask. 

The food is warm and filling, and perhaps the best thing Thorin has eaten in years. They eat in silence, and when they’re done, Bilbo moves behind Thorin and puts his hands on his shoulders. Thorin closes his eyes and leans back into the touch. 

“You don’t have any braids,” Bilbo says softly. Thorin feels fingers through his hair and sighs, closing his eyes at the feeling. 

“They take time,” he manages. 

“May I…?” Bilbo moves the hand still on Thorin’s shoulder down his arm, the other still combing through his hair. It’s a loaded question, and for a second, Thorin isn’t sure how to respond. Then, he manages to nod. “Come with me.”

Bilbo leads him to his bedroom, and Thorin’s heart stutters when he’s told to sit. He toes off his boots and sits with his legs crossed. The bed is soft, and the frame is clearly decades old, but it’s sturdy. Thorin runs his hand over the quilt as Bilbo sits behind him and runs his fingers through his hair. 

“Is there any Dwarven braiding custom I should know about?” Bilbo asks. His voice is lighthearted, and it makes Thorin smile. 

“That,” he says, “depends on your intentions.”

“My intentions?”   
“Yes.”

“Well. My intentions are just to tidy up your hair and do it before you fall asleep, because otherwise it’s going to be a birds nest in the morning,” Bilbo says. It’s perfectly innocent, but Thorin knows he’s pretending. 

“For some of us, it’s a way of bonding,” Thorin says once Bilbo starts. “It takes a lot of trust to let someone do this for Dwarves, it’s incredibly intimate for us.”

“And you’re letting me do it,” Bilbo says quietly, but he doesn’t stop. His hands are gentle as he does it, though Thorin suspects he’s using Hobbit braids. Thorin has seen them, and they’re used mostly to keep your hair out of your face when you’re working. There’s nothing ceremonial or intricate about them. 

“I trust you,” Thorin says. 

“What would it mean if I asked you to do the same?” Bilbo asks. 

“Something a bit more than intimacy,” Thorin says. He’s glad he’s not looking at Bilbo, because his face is flushing a healthy shade of red, and Bilbo’s hands in his hair still. 

“For Hobbits, we just give each other flowers and hope for the best,” Bilbo says. 

“I think I’d prefer that to complicated braiding and spending hours in a forge to make hair beads,” Thorin admits. Bilbo goes back to it, but one hand goes to Thorin’s neck, making him jump when he feels warm skin against his own. 

“Flowers don’t stay forever,” Bilbo says. 

“No, but you can press them. That’s almost like preserving them.” Thorin leans into the touch and closes his eyes. He’s never let anyone do this, not in this context. With family, it’s different. Thorin had done Dis’ hair for her coronation, being the one handing his title to her. It was appropriate. When Fili and Kili were children, Dis would teach them how to do it for themselves, but still enjoyed doing it for them. Thrain and Yael, Thorin’s parents, had done it for each other in quiet moments Thorin had only witnessed by accident as a child. 

This was… this was something Thorin didn’t understand. 

“You sent me flowers, you know,” Bilbo says softly. “Simbelmyne.”

“You sent me cornflowers,” Thorin says. 

“I found them in my garden. I’ve never had cornflowers before.” Bilbo does something and then puts both of his hands on his shoulders, scooting close. 

“Does that count as Hobbit courting if it’s pressed flowers in letters?” Thorin asks. 

“I think so.” Bilbo rests his forehead between Thorin’s shoulder blades, hands on his shoulders. 

“I didn’t read the second letter.” Thorin’s voice comes out a little broken and for some reason, unknown to him, he doesn’t know why it hurts to say it. Bilbo’s hands tighten and he exhales, sitting up straight. He moves and sits next to Thorin. 

“Do you still have it?” he asks. 

“I do.”   
“Go and get it for me.” Bilbo looks at the floor, not meeting Thorin’s eye. He just stands and leaves the room, his heart pounding when he finds his bag and pulls out his journal. He takes it back to Bilbo’s bedroom, and finds him curled up, chin resting on his knees. 

“Here.” Thorin opens his journal and finds the letter at the back of it. He hands it to Bilbo, who just looks at it, touching the address written on the front. “After your first letter, I didn’t know if I was prepared to read what else you sent.”

“I almost didn’t send it,” Bilbo says. He flips it over and breaks the wax seal with his thumb.Thorin watches as he opens the letter out. It’s short, fitting only on one side of the page, but Thorin knows Bilbo has a talent in saying what he means in few words. 

“Read it to me,” Thorin says. Bilbo looks at him, eyes wide, and then looks back at the letter. He puts the envelope to the side and sits back. 

“To an old friend,” he begins. “There are things I wish I had said to you that I try not to dwell on  too often. I can think about what would have happened, had I lost you, but I cannot think too long on the things that I feel for you. I know that this letter may not reach you in time, but I think it’s worth sending it to you anyway. When I say that I care for you, I mean that in a way perhaps more intense and complicated than it seems. Some would call it love, but even now, I’m not sure. Thinking about it muddles the feelings too much to see them clearly, and I would rather figure it out over time than in one go. 

“But as it is, I can’t deny how I feel about you. I love you. And while I don’t quite know what to do with that, I am content to be in love with you for a long time. You are my closest friend and though we have not seen each other in a long while, I will always cherish you and the things we have done together and for each other. I will always look at my young oak tree and think of you, I look at Sting and think of the things I did to get back home, I look at the shield on my wall and the Dwarven cloak you gave me and the chess piece Beorn gave me and I think about everything we did to reclaim an entire kingdom for your people. 

“If nothing ever comes of it, I am still glad for the chance I had to fall in love with you. I would not want it to be with anyone else.

“Yours eternally, Bilbo Baggins.”

Thorin sits there and stares at Bilbo for what feels like forever. He watches him fold the letter carefully and put it on his bedside cabinet, his fingers lingering on the paper as he sighs. Thorin doesn’t know what he can even say to that. He wonders what it would have been like if he had actually opened it in Minas Tirith. He’s sure that meeting Bilbo once again would have gone very differently. 

But it didn’t happen like that.

“Say something,” Bilbo says eventually. “Please.”

“What is there for me to say?” Thorin asks. 

“I don’t know. Something.”

“I never thought you felt the same way,” Thorin says. He looks at Bilbo and sees his eyes widen in shock. 

“You... “

“I do, yes.”

“I never knew.”

“I’m good at hiding my feelings.” Thorin turns so he’s facing Bilbo and takes his hand. “I wanted to tell you when you left. I wanted you to stay, but I knew how much you needed to come back, so I didn’t.”

“You should have said something,” Bilbo says. 

“So should you.” Thorin leans close and touches the side of Bilbo’ face, getting him to look at him. His eyes are wide and Thorin doesn’t know how to read them, but he’s willing to try. 

“But you’re here now. And you know,” Bilbo says. He touches the back of Thorin’s hand cupping his cheek and closes his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. 

“It would have made it a lot easier if we were just honest with each other before,” Thorin says. 

“How about we tell each other the truth from now on?” Bilbo asks. 

“I can do that.” 

Thorin doesn’t really see what else he can do but lean in and kiss him, so he does that. It’s gentle, at first, slow movements from the both of them as they figure out their bodies in relation to each other, resulting in Thorin with a lap full of Bilbo, his hands sliding down his back while Bilbo’s fingers tangle in his hair. Thorin isn’t a young dwarf anymore, and so he doesn’t rush things. He just lets it wash over him, Bilbo’s warmth and the little noises he makes and the butterflies picking up in his stomach in such a wonderful way. 

Bilbo pushes him down onto his back and Thorin goes gladly, pulling away long enough to look at Bilbo and see the flush in his cheeks. 

“Is this okay?” Bilbo whispers. Thorin nods and rests his hand against his thigh. He’s warm all over, something Thorin has known for a while but hasn’t experienced. He’s being kissed again, and he doesn’t think about it, just zones out. 

It’s been a long time since he’s done this. Decades, really, and this is the first time it’s really meant something as significant as this. They’re both out of practice, but Thorin doesn’t care. It seems so ridiculous that this morning, he was walking through the Shire towards Bag End, and now, there’s a Hobbit on top of him, kissing him with increasing intensity, making the same noises and gasping when Thorin’s beard scratches his skin. 

Thorin knows nothing is going to happen tonight. They’re both too tired, and so he moves back on the bed and pulls Bilbo back on top of him, this time not kissing him, just looking. 

“I may have ruined your braids,” Bilbo says, trailing his fingers along Thorin’s beard. 

“I don’t care,” Thorin says. 

“Of course you don’t. Are you tired?” Bilbo asks. Thorin nods. 

“Exhausted. I walked half of Middle Earth in six months,” he says. “I’m probably going to sleep for two days.”

“Then get some sleep. We’ve got time to… well, to do this. And I know how grumpy you get when you’re tired,” Bilbo says. He gets off of Thorin and the bed, and goes to shut the curtains around his bedroom window. 

“Not that grumpy,” Thorin protests. 

“Yes, that grumpy. Sleep. If you’re up early, I’ll make you breakfast,” Bilbo says over his shoulder as he blows out candles. Thorin slides under the blankets and finds them incredibly soft from years of use. He watches as Bilbo takes a candlestick holder and leave the room, leaving it in darkness. Thorin lays back and listens to him humming from somewhere in another room, blowing out other candles so he didn’t accidentally burn his home down in the night. Thorin wonders how many times he almost did that. 

He rolls over onto his side, facing away from the door, and closes his eyes. His lips tingle from having been kissed so thoroughly and he touches them, feeling like he’s in a dream. Had that actually happened, or is he going to wake up in Minas Tirith tomorrow, or worse, Erebor? Is Bilbo real right now? Did Thorin make the right choice? 

When Bilbo comes back in and gets into bed, Thorin realises he doesn’t even care. Bilbo’s arm wraps around him from behind, albeit a little hesitant, but it’s comfortable, warm. Thorin takes his hand and brings it to his mouth to kiss his fingertips. 

“I didn’t say it back,” he whispers into the darkness, “but I love you too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this when I was partially incoherent after being ill so I'm sorry for the typos/inaccuracies I just wanted to write gay stuff  
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://romanightwing.tumblr.com/)


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